


If You Really Knew Me

by GenimStilinski



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Depression, Gen, References to Suicide, Sterek Preslash - Freeform, canon character death, caring!Coach, caring!Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenimStilinski/pseuds/GenimStilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you really knew me, you would know that..."</p>
<p>Stiles' answer to that question, posted innocently on the wall with a thousand other answers, is discovered by Scott. What happens when they all realize how badly Stiles has been while they were paying attention to everything and everyone but him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Really Knew Me

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between "Motel California" and "Currents".

            It started out as an idea by a couple of girls in the SGA. One of them had seen this [post online](http://genim--stilinski.tumblr.com/post/52843657883/ketaminecandy-ugly-diamonds-perfbetty), and naturally, had shown it to her two best friends. Then, they presented it at the next meeting, and it was agreed upon that it should happen at Beacon Hills High School. They took it to the principal, who immediately put the stamp of approval. And finally, in Friday’s afternoon announcements, they announced that next Wednesday the student body was invited to take part in an activity called “I believe in my story”.

            Stiles listened attentively as Coach Finstock, whose impeccable ability to misread announcements had yet to get him replaced, described what would happen.

            _So what you’re gonna do is you’re gonna take a 4x4 index card and write a statement about yourself that starts with ‘If you really knew me, you would know that…”. If you don’t have index cards-_ what kind of high school kid doesn’t have index cards? Lazy bastards _\- you can pick up one in the office any time this afternoon through Wednesday. You can write anything on them, YES anything, from the weird to the scary to the downright depressing, and no one has to know it’s yours. Just bring it in and tape it to the wall. Ms. Morell and I will be there throughout the day to make sure that everything stays on the walls and there’s plenty of tape to go around._

            Coach moved onto the next announcement, but Stiles wasn’t really listening anymore. He’d seen posts online about this sort of thing, and he knew the power of anonymity in an open forum. He also couldn’t help but have a dozen or so thoughts on what he might put.

            Things like:

            _I was there when my mom died._

            Or

            _I feel like no one wants me until they need something from me._

            Both were true, but he knew that there was one above all others that he had to write. Sure, he could chicken out and put something less…well, less, but something inside him decided to push. Ms. Morell had told him more than once that he should consider writing out his feelings, like in a journal or something. She said it would help to put them on paper.

            Maybe she was right.

            Later that night he slipped an index card onto his desk, and set a pen on top of it. He liked the idea of permanence, how the pen ink would never go away like pencil would. He couldn’t erase it, once it was there.

            Saturday night he picked the card up and rubbed his fingers over it, imagining the words and almost willing them to be there. But, as he finally managed to reach for the pen, his phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him badly enough that his hand jolted and knocked the writing utensil to the floor.

            He didn’t pick it up until Sunday night, but by then he’d lost the nerve.

            Monday came and went, and the index card sat incriminatingly blank among his school things, waiting for him whenever he opened his backpack. Each time he ran his fingers over it again, and each time he brought them away like he’d been burned by its touch.

            And then it was Tuesday night. _Now or never, Stilinski._ The pen was in hand before he could think further. _Those words aren’t gonna write themselves._

            **If you really knew me, you’d know that**

            He resolved to write the rest tomorrow, when he was feeling a bit more brave.

            Finally, the last bell rang on Wednesday afternoon, and the hallways were filled with students trying to get out to the parking lots so they could get on with their lives as quickly as possible. The hallway leading to the locker rooms was, however, thankfully void of students.

            Coach Finstock eyed him up, taking note of the small piece of paper in his hands, and the unusual shakiness of his demeanor. Stiles, he knew, for all he was weird in ways that the Coach didn’t want to hear about, wasn’t usually like this. Coach knew that face. He knew better than to say anything as the boy hesitantly took a piece of tape off the desk he was sitting at, and looked away as Stiles found a blank spot to put his message. This wasn’t a moment he needed to see.

            He did get up and give Stilinski a pat on the shoulder, though. It looked like he needed it.

            XXXXXX

            Thursday’s lunch was weird, and Scott wasn’t even thinking about the actual food. Stiles was just…quiet. He didn’t like it when Stiles got quiet, because it usually meant that he was having some sort of internal freak out. Stiles was one to flail, and when he freaked out on the outside, the flailing that accompanied seemed to help him get it out of his system. But this, this equanimity (and yes, that’s the word of the day), was always bad. The last time Stiles was like this was when his dad was hospitalized after having chest pains. It’s a good part of why the Sheriff was on such a strict diet, created and enforced by Stiles himself. Those few hours of waiting, not knowing if it was a heart attack or a false alarm, had been hell for the both of them. Stiles just sat there, like he’s doing now, staring off at nothing.

            Plan A: Distraction.

            “Hey, have you gone and read any of those notes? I heard they’re staying up all week so people have the chance to go.” At that, Stiles’ head snapped to meet his gaze so fast Scott could practically hear his vertebrae protest. His best friend was outright panicking now, breaths and heart rate speeding up exponentially.

            “Are you okay?” He asked, not sure what else to do.

            Stiles left without giving an answer. But that was an answer in and of itself. Scott abandoned what was left of his lunch in favor of going to find whatever note Stiles left. Whatever it was had to be bad, and if Stiles couldn’t tell him, he’d have to find out by himself.

            XXXXXX

            Coach Finstock was standing outside the locker rooms, which was strange, given that his office was inside them, and his classroom was on the other side of the school. But, a few people were taking tape from him, so Scott figured that some people had yet to post their notes, and the Coach was still on oversight duty.

            “McCall!!!” Coach barked at him. “Have you put up one of these things yet?”

            “Uh, no, Coach,” Scott sheepishly replied, “I didn’t really have anything to say.” Actually, he jokingly wrote out one that said **If you really knew me, you’d know that I’m a werewolf.**  But, he didn’t bring it in. Anyone reading it would think it’s a joke, and people were actually coming and putting up important stuff. It would just come off as rude.

            “It’s not too late, if you want to.” He informed him. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he shook his head instead, and turned to another student who was trying to get tape off of him.

            Scott started by walking along the left wall, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. It was the most subtle way he knew to scent out something while in public. It was Stiles’ idea.

            Moving to the right wall, he caught it, and started looking in the general area for Stiles’ unmistakable handwriting.

            And there it was, down towards the floor, black ink written message freezing Scott where he was crouched.

            **If you really knew me, you’d know that I’m depressed, and have tried to kill myself. More than once.**

            XXXXXX

            Derek had fallen asleep while reading again. Maybe, had he not woken up with Scott hovering over him, shaking his shoulder like a little kid begging their parent for cheerios at 6 in the morning, he might have taken a moment to examine why it was that he wasn’t sleeping at night, but kept drifting off mid-day.

            Scott did not look like he could patiently wait for Derek to figure that one out. He looked upset, and not in his usual ‘you-messed-something-up-now-go-be-a-good-alpha-and-fix-it’ sort of way. He looked and smelled like he’d been crying.

            “What happened?”

            XXXXXX

            Friday morning, Scott asked Stiles for a ride to and from school, citing rain as his excuse for not wanting to take his bike. Though a prime example of the phenomenon where everyone wants him for something, but forgets him otherwise, he did what any overly good friend would do, and said he’d be there in 15.

            Yesterday afternoon, when he’d texted Scott to see if he wanted to come over to get his ass handed to him via xbox games, he said he needed to go to talk to Derek instead. Whatever, it’s not like he hasn’t made up worse excuses.

            School sucked, and sitting through a boring English lecture was probably the worst of it. Ms. Blake, for all her enthusiasm, had a habit of having one opinion and running with it, while Stiles’ usually differed. It didn’t matter, though, because on essays he could absolutely defend his opinion, and that was more important than agreeing with her.

            He went to the wall again during his free period, read some of the other notes. He found what he believed to be Isaac’s note, and he found Allison’s. He had a knack for memorizing people’s handwriting. It also helped that their notes made sense. The two of them had suffered, and their carefully worded notes left something to be desired. He couldn’t help but wonder who else had read their notes, specifically. You could pick any point on the wall to start- there were so many.

            There were a few that he read that were like his, and he sympathized with their authors. He took a pen out of his backpack and wrote little notes on the back of a few, in case they came back to see their notes. Maybe solidarity could help them a little. He wouldn’t have that feeling, though. He highly doubted that any of them had spent the last year dealing with the supernatural and landing in near death situations time and time and again.

            He did spot a note speaking of a lack of parent-kid trust, and he definitely could relate to that one. After all the crime scenes he’d shown up at, his dad didn’t trust him one bit. Right now, they were just waiting for the Darach to strike at the next group of three. No doubt that he’d be there, and his dad would be there to eye him with a mix of disappointment and pain. Stiles is pretty sure at this point that his dad believes his son is in too deep that he himself will have to turn a blind eye or become a co-conspirator to save his son from the law, and California has the death penalty.

            Again, it didn’t matter. He’d take the fall if he had to. He’d do it for his pack. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go.

            The bell rang, drawing him away. It was time for Chemistry. All he could hope for in that class was that whoever was replacing Harris would hate him less.

            XXXXXX

            Scott asked him inside when they reached his house, and he decided not to be an ass and just do it. He had, for a moment, considered giving the wolf boy a taste of his own medicine, but after the incident at the motel, he was more reluctant to push Scott away. The truth was, they needed each other, and if Scott was going to ask him in, he would go.

            Stiles had expected to see Isaac, and maybe Mrs. McCall, but he hadn’t been prepared to see all three Hales sitting side by side on the couch, his father in the arm chair, and Isaac, Boyd and Mrs. McCall crammed on the loveseat.

            Suddenly the detour they made to the gas station for chips made more sense. Scott had set him up. He bought time while everyone else rushed to the McCall home. They were all looking at him with these looks of sadness in their eyes, and he knew it was all for him, as they kept looking when Scott moved to sit on the arm of the loveseat next to his mom.

            A sense of dread filled him. It was like putting that note, the one now sitting on the living room table, on the wall all over again. The wall was SUPPOSED to be judgment free, but somehow, one of them, probably Scott, got their hands on his note and decided to confront him about it.

            “Stiles,” Mrs. McCall spoke up first, “Don’t panic. We just want to talk to you.”

            He moved into the room, electing to lean against the entertainment center rather than find a place to sit. Not that there was one, anyways. From this angle, they looked like a row of judges, ready to list his offenses.

            “I know that it’s tough, kiddo,” This time, it was the Sheriff, “but we’re worried about you.”

            He said nothing, waiting for the next to speak.

            “Would you like to sit down?” Peter stood, offering his place on the couch. That was actually surprising, but he shook his head ‘no’. Peter sat again, looking between Derek and the Sheriff for the next move.

            Derek was Alpha, and by the way the Sheriff was looking at him, Stiles figured that his father had a vague notion of that idea. Naturally, he was the next to speak.

            He picked the note off the table and brought it to his lap.

            “Your father told us what happened last June, so I won’t ask you to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

            Wow, Derek was giving him some modicum of choice in all this? That’s just great.

            “Look, Stiles, I know we don’t tell you this near enough, but you’re really important…”

            Stiles’ eyebrows shot up in disbelief, and everyone but Boyd and Cora looked like they wanted to jump in and stop Derek from verbal vomiting all sorts of statements that just came across as bull.

            “What he means to say is that he appreciates you, as we all do. We haven’t exactly done the best job of being there for you, even when you’ve been there for all of us at one point or another.” Peter leaned in, conveying a sincerity that he hadn’t known the creeper zombie-wolf was capable of.

            Thinking of Peter and his resurrection made him wonder why no one thought to invite Lydia. Had she been told, she’d be there kicking his butt for trying to leave them all like that. They were, after all, strangely friends after she was in the know.

            Cora was rolling her eyes in that way that Lydia did, so he kind of felt she might be there in spirit.

            Isaac leaned in next, much as Peter had, and informed him, “You can talk to us, any of us, any time, about anything. We’re listening now.”

            “Fuck you,” Stiles spat, surprising even himself. It was too late, though. He had to go with it now. “You think my suicide attempt was a cry for attention? NO! I wanted to die, and on my best days I still do! I’m not gonna start laying out on everyone’s couches, telling them how I feel about every little thing that ever happens to me because I can’t fucking deal while everyone in this room has got their own pile of shit to deal with. I don’t want your pity, Isaac.”

            As quickly as he finished, and he supposed he hadn’t even registered that the man had moved, Derek was there, pressing him into the wall. He was entirely surrounded by muscle, and he couldn’t look around to see, though he heard some shuffling like people getting up, ready to come to his aide. Derek, meanwhile, was staring him down, waiting to speak until he had his gaze.   
           

            “The fact is, you’re not dealing. This isn’t about pity. You’re pack. It doesn’t matter if it’s mine or Scott’s, or both.” He was whispering, probably to lessen the chance of the Sheriff asking a whole new set of questions. “I know a lot has happened, and I know you’re scared and hurting, but I promise, I will do everything in my power to keep you and your dad alive, do you understand?”

            Stiles nodded, tears clouding his vision.

            “You can talk to me, Stiles. I won’t push you away, or cut you off. Let us help. When you’re ready.” Then, he stepped back, cautious of the situation. The Sheriff was still standing, but the rest had returned to their seats, knowing Derek wasn’t about to hurt their pack human in any way.

            Stiles nearly threw himself forward, back into Derek’s space, and into his arms, sobbing for the first time in what felt like ages. All Derek could do was hold him, whisper little assurances into his ear. They stayed like that for a while, and the others slowly trickled out of the room, giving them privacy in this moment.

            For once, Derek was stepping up as the alpha he should be, and Stiles was falling, able to trust that someone would be there to catch him. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you or anyone you know is contemplating suicide, please seek help! The events that take place in this fic are not intended to inspire or condone suicide. As always, if you just need someone to talk to, my ask box on tumblr is open. You can find me at genim--stilinski.tumblr.com


End file.
